Page 9 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 9

Secret Tides

Roark

The wound in my side has begun to heal properly after three days of rest and nourishment—proof of Ashe’s diligent care. I stretch cautiously on the makeshift resting area made up of cushions and spare blankets as I glance out toward one of the windows.

The first rays of morning light filter in, catching dust motes in their beams. I study the room once more, cataloging its modest treasures. The collection of weathered books on seafaring and maritime history. The mismatched mugs hanging from hooks beneath the kitchen cabinet. The brass telescope mounted by the eastern window—functional rather than decorative.

This space speaks volumes of her character: practical, unpretentious, yet harboring unexpected depth.

I hear Ashe stirring in the bedroom, followed by the gentle click of her door opening. She emerges with hair still mussed from sleep, wrapped in a faded flannel robe. The sight stirs something unexpectedly tender within me.

“Morning,” she mumbles, making a direct course for her ancient coffee machine. The contraption wheezes and sputters like a drowning sailor, a mechanical abomination that should have been put out of its misery decades ago. “Sleep okay?”

“As well as can be expected,” I reply. “So what’s your schedule today?”

“First tour at ten. School group.” She grimaces slightly. “Twenty third-graders with unlimited questions and limited attention spans.”

I nod, though the concept of shepherding small humans through a historical structure sounds remarkably similar to navigating a ship through a hurricane—chaotic, loud, and potentially disastrous.

“I shall maintain absolute discretion during their visit,” I assure her.

Ashe leans against the counter while the coffee brews. “I’ll lock the private quarters from the outside as usual, so you should be safe.”

The coffee maker gives a final wheeze before falling silent. She pours the steaming liquid into a chipped mug bearing the faded words “Cape Tempest Annual Fishing Derby 2013.”

“How’s the side feeling?” she asks, eyes flicking to my injury.

I lift the bandage to reveal the wound—still an angry red line, but otherwise healed. “Much improved. Your stitching technique would impress even the most seasoned ship’s surgeon.”

“High praise from Captain Tentacles,” she says, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

We both know what my healing means. The unspoken truth hovers between us like storm clouds on the horizon. My time here is limited—has always been limited. This temporary shelter can’t become permanent, no matter how unexpectedly agreeable I’ve found it to be.

She sips her coffee, glancing at the clock. “I should get ready. Need to check the light mechanism before the kids arrive.”

“Of course.”

She disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the shower running moments later. I allow myself to imagine the water cascading over her skin, remembering the exquisite responsiveness of her body when I’d touched her that first night. The memory sends a ripple of color across me, and I force my thoughts elsewhere.

Instead, I focus on practical concerns. The longer I remain, the greater the danger—to her reputation, her position, perhaps even her safety. This town’s history with sea creatures is written in blood and trophy cases. She can’t be seen as a sympathizer.

The shower stops, and soon Ashe emerges dressed in her official lighthouse keeper’s uniform: dark blue trousers, light blue button-up shirt with embroidered patch, and practical boots. Her damp hair is twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“You look…” I search for an appropriate compliment.

“Professional?” she offers.

“I was going to say ‘authoritative,’” I reply. “Like a proper ship’s commander.”

This earns me a genuine smile. “I’ll take it. There’s more coffee if you want some. And I left some fish in the refrigerator—should still be fresh enough from yesterday.”

“Thank you.”

She checks her watch, then gathers a clipboard from the table. “Remember—”

“Complete silence. Do not emerge until you give the all-clear,” I recite. “I was a ship’s captain for decades, treasure. I understand the importance of following orders.”

“Right.” She hesitates, then nods briskly. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

After she leaves, I carefully make my way to the kitchen to retrieve the fish, slipping it past my tentacle beard to consume it raw, as nature intended. Human cooking methods are interesting diversions, but nothing compares to the clean simplicity of fresh catch.

Time passes slowly when confined to a small space. I’ve grown accustomed to the vastness of the ocean, the freedom to move as I please through its depths. This voluntary imprisonment, necessary though it may be, chafes against my nature. But I find a good book and it eases the boredom for a time.

Eventually, I hear the clamor of approaching voices—high-pitched, exuberant, distinctly young. Through the door, Ashe’s voice is confident as she explains the lighthouse’s history and function to her young audience. She speaks of maritime safety, of the light’s purpose as guardian and guide. There’s genuine passion in her tone when she describes how the beam cuts through the darkest storm.

“Can we see where you live?” a child’s voice asks.

My entire body tenses.

“That area’s private,” Ashe responds smoothly. “But I can show you something even cooler. Who wants to see the biggest, brightest light bulb in town?”

A chorus of excited agreements follows, and their footsteps recede upward, toward the gallery. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

But mere minutes later, I hear it—light footsteps on the stairs, coming down rather than going up. A single set, too quick and light to be Ashe’s.

I remain motionless, my entire body coiled in alert stillness as the footsteps approach.

“Hello?” A child’s voice, high and curious, followed by a testing rattle of the living quarters doorknob. “Is this where the bathroom is?”

I press myself against the wall beside the door, careful that no shadow betrays my presence beneath the crack. The knob rattles again, more insistent this time.

“Aw, it’s locked,” the child mutters, disappointed. “Maybe there’s pirate treasure in there.”

More rattling, then the sound of retreating footsteps, quickly replaced by heavier ones descending the stairs.

“Tyler!” It’s a woman’s voice, sharp with authority. “You know better than to wander off during a tour! The restrooms are outside, just like Ms. Morgan told everyone.”

“But I wanted to see some treasure,” comes the petulant reply.

“Back upstairs. Now.”

Their voices fade as they return to the tour group. I remain frozen for several more minutes, hearts pounding. Such a near miss. Had the old door’s lock not held, and the child found me…

The consequences unspool in my mind like a nautical chart marking dangerous waters. Discovery. Panic. Perhaps violence.

Certainly the end of Ashe’s position here—her reputation in tatters, her livelihood stripped away because she showed compassion to a wounded creature.

Nearly an hour passes before I hear the distant clamor of departing children, followed by blessed silence. Eventually, Ashe’s familiar tread approaches, and the lock clicks open.

Her face appears in the doorway, flushed and slightly harried. “All clear. They’re gone.”

I uncurl from my defensive position, stretching tentacles that have grown stiff from immobility. “One of your charges attempted to enter.”

“Tyler,” she sighs, pushing hair back from her forehead. “His teacher apologized about fifty times. Apparently he has a history of wandering off.”

“The door held firm,” I reassure her, though we both know how tenuous our security truly is.

She collapses into the armchair by the window, suddenly looking exhausted. “That was too close.”

“Indeed.” I move beside her, my tentacles gliding across the worn floorboards. “Ashe, we must discuss what we have both been avoiding.”

Her eyes meet mine, resignation already shadowing them. “Your wound is healing well.”

“Yes.” I settle myself opposite her, arranging my limbs in what I hope is a non-threatening configuration. “I believe I’m recovered enough to return to the water.”

She nods slowly, her fingers picking at a loose thread on the armchair. “I knew this was temporary.”

“The risk grows with each passing day,” I continue, forcing practicality into my voice. “Not just the risk of discovery, but the danger to your position here. This lighthouse is your home.”

“It’s just a job,” she says, but we both know it’s far more than that. This tower of stone and light is her anchor in a world that has taken too much from her already.

“It’s a job you excel at. One that provides you purpose.” I extend a tentacle toward her, stopping just short of contact. “I wouldn’t see you lose it on my account.”

Outside, gray clouds have begun gathering on the horizon—the leading edge of the storm system forecast to arrive tonight. Nature providing the perfect cover for my departure.

“There’s a weather front approaching,” I note. “Strong winds, heavy precipitation. Conditions that would keep even the most determined tourists and fishermen indoors.”

“You want to leave tonight,” she says. Not a question.

“It would be prudent.”

She rises abruptly, moving to the window to stare at the darkening sky. “And then what? You just… disappear back into the ocean? We pretend none of this happened?”

The question pierces more sharply than expected. What indeed? I have existed in isolation for so long that the prospect of returning to it suddenly seems unbearable.

These few days with her—filled with conversation, with touch, with being seen in my true form without horror—have awakened something I had thought long dormant.

“I have a place,” I say finally. “A cabin, hidden in a cove north of here.”

This catches her attention. She turns from the window. “A cabin? On land?”

“I acquired it during my years as Captain Sterling,” I explain. “Before the Great Unveiling stripped away my human disguise. It sits on a private inlet, accessible primarily by water, though there is a difficult forest path as well.”

“And you’ve maintained it all this time? Even after…”

“Even after I could no longer walk among humans in their form, yes.” I move closer to her, tentacles flowing across the floor. “It became a repository for my human possessions, my books and charts. A connection to that life.”

She studies me with new curiosity. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“It remained irrelevant to our immediate situation.” I gesture toward the kitchen table. “May I?”

At her nod, I retrieve paper and pencil, beginning to sketch a rough map. My captain’s training makes the work precise—coordinates, landmarks, depth measurements near the hidden dock.

“Here,” I indicate a small cove nestled between rocky outcroppings. “Approximately four miles north. The cabin sits back from the water, sheltered by a stand of pine trees. Difficult to spot unless one knows precisely where to look.”

She leans over the map, her hair falling forward to brush the paper. “I know this area. It’s completely undeveloped—most boats avoid it because of the submerged rocks.”

“Precisely why I selected it,” I confirm. “Privacy was essential during my captain days, when I needed sanctuary to shed my magical disguise temporarily.”

My hand moves across the paper, adding details. “The approach by water is treacherous without proper knowledge. These markers here—” I indicate several points, “—will guide a careful navigator safely to the dock. Although I recommend the hiking path instead, long as it may be.”

She takes the map, her fingers brushing against my hand in a touch that seems deliberate. “When would you want me to come?”

The question holds more weight than its simple words suggest. I consider carefully before answering.

“Perhaps… a week from now? Time enough for my complete recovery, and for you to consider whether you truly wish to continue our… acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance,” she repeats, a touch of wryness in her tone. “Is that all this is?”

Heat ripples beneath my skin, no doubt causing visible patterns across my surface. “I lack the appropriate human terminology for whatever this is between us.”

“That makes two of us.” Her smile is small but genuine. “A week, then.”

Outside, the first raindrops begin to patter against the windows as the storm front arrives.

The decision is made. Tonight, I return to the sea. But perhaps not to solitude—not entirely. The possibility of her visit glimmers like a distant lighthouse beam, unexpected and hopeful.

I only wonder if she will truly come, or if she’ll realize how foolish the both of us have been.

As night falls, the storm strikes with the ferocity I predicted, rain lashing against the windows and wind howling around the lighthouse like a living creature. Conditions that would keep sensible humans indoors—and provide perfect cover for a cthulhu’s departure.

I’ve spent the evening hours gathering my strength, consuming the last of the fish Ashe brought, and carefully removing the stitches from my nearly healed wound. The angry red line has faded to a duller purple—a mark I’ll carry perhaps for months, but no longer a hindrance to movement.

Ashe moves around the small quarters with restless energy, checking the weather readings, adjusting the lamp in the tower via the control panel, occasionally glancing my way when she thinks I’m not looking. There’s a tension between us, heavy with words neither of us quite knows how to voice.

“The tide turns in thirty minutes,” I finally say, breaking the strained silence. “The outgoing current will assist my passage through the harbor channel.”

She nods, her back to me as she stares out the rain-streaked window. “Smart. Conserve your strength.”

“Ashe.” I move closer, the sound of my tentacles on the wooden floor causing her to turn. “I am grateful. For everything.”

She forces a smile. “Just doing what anyone would do.”

“We both know that’s not true.” I extend a tentacle, brushing it lightly against her hand. “Most humans would have left me to die in that boathouse. Or called the authorities. Or worse.”

She sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly as a particularly violent gust shakes the windows. The perfect moment to depart draws closer.

“I should get my rain gear,” she says, moving toward the closet.

“You plan to accompany me?”

She pulls out a heavy yellow slicker and matching hat. “Did you think I was going to let you slink off just like that? I need to make sure you make it to the water safely.” She pauses. “Unless you’d rather go alone?”

“No,” I say, perhaps too quickly. “I’d appreciate your company very much.”

She nods once, decisively, then reaches for a waterproof flashlight. “Let’s go, then.”

We make our way toward the main door, and Ashe checks through a window before cautiously opening it. The storm’s fury hits us immediately—horizontal rain, wind that threatens to knock even my substantial mass off-balance.

“Stay close!” Ashe shouts over the tempest, her yellow-clad figure almost comically bright against the darkness.

We make our way down the path toward the boathouse and shoreline, Ashe’s flashlight beam dancing ahead of us. The same route we traveled when she first brought me to the lighthouse, now traversed in reverse. There’s a symmetry to it that feels appropriate, if melancholy.

At the water’s edge, we pause. The waves crash against the rocks, white-capped and angry. To a human, they might appear threatening; to me, they are merely interesting tactical considerations.

Ashe turns to face me, rain streaming down her face despite the hat. “Are you sure you’re strong enough for this? The current’s rough tonight.”

“I’ve navigated far worse,” I assure her. Though I appreciate the concern in her voice, the protectiveness of it.

Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating her features—determined, worried, something else… In that stark white light, I’m struck by how remarkable she is, this human who dragged a wounded monster to safety and stitched him together with steady hands.

“The map,” I remind her, raising my voice above the wind. “Keep it safe.”

“I will.”

“One week,” I say. “If you wish to come.”

She nods, water dripping from the brim of her hat. “One week.”

There should be more to say, I think. Some human custom of farewell that would adequately express… whatever this feeling is that swells within my chest.

But words have never been my strength, especially not human ones with all their complex shadings and implications.

Instead, I reach out, wrapping a tentacle gently around her waist, drawing her slightly closer. She comes willingly, looking up at me with those storm-colored eyes.

“Be safe, Ashe Morgan,” I say, my voice low but carrying through the wind somehow.

“You too, Captain,” she replies, and there’s a warmth in how she says the title that spreads through me despite the cold rain.

I release her reluctantly, already backing toward the churning water. “Watch for me on clear days. I’ll be patrolling these waters.”

“I’ll keep the light burning,” she promises.

With a final nod, I turn and plunge into the sea. The cold embrace of the ocean welcomes me home, salt water healing the last raw places of my wound. I dive deep, powerful tentacles propelling me through the undercurrents with a strength that feels glorious after days of confinement.

Yet as I cut through the dark water, moving ever northward toward my hidden cove, I’m already counting the days until I might see her again. If she comes at all.

Seven days. An eternity to wait, yet hardly any time at all after years of solitude.